Thursday, January 27, 2011

The Average Broad: (Discussing Cameron Diaz in her 'thriller' The Box. Or The Button. Or whatever that movie was called, where there was a button in a box and a million dollars to kill someone or something.) Sometimes I really like her and sometimes she annoys me.

MEH: She hasn't annoyed me yet.

TAB: Well, you want to be up in her box, which means there's a brain chemical that makes you more easily able to deal with her annoyances. It's in all men. You can tolerate crazy, obnoxious, annoying broads if you want/think you're gonna get up in that box. The brain chemical, I'll call it 'letsbonerone,' is released when you see a beautiful woman and she starts talking about things like her last manicure and her cat's behavior. It enables you to tune her out in favor of envisioning her naked and further put up with things that would otherwise make you bitch slap her and go "STOP TALKING!"

MEH: My God! You nailed it on the spot (no pun intended).

TAB: It's tantamount to the brain chemical in females called 'wealthogen,' which gives women the ability to ignore how ugly and wrinkly a man is, provided that he has money. It also heightens one's ability to hallucinate beautiful men during sex.

MEH: Put the will on the headboard. Makes the sex easier.

TAB: Yes, exactly. I think I need some wealthogen injections. Don't think I have enough.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

It's not that I'm slacking off with the posting, but I'm going to be a brat and throw out the "it was my birthday on Monday and also I've been in Seattle and Portland and haven't been near a computer" card, so you guys can just mellow out for a sec.

I'm sorry. Thanks for forgiving me. Let's never fight again, okay?

So you heard me right - I journeyed from helLA to the Pacific Northwest to run amok in two beautiful, rainy cities that were both full of amazing food, gorgeous scenery and Holy Balls, some of the most beautiful bearded lumberjack-hipster men I have ever seen. Seriously, a lot of the men I've scoped here in SoCal have this whole, super pretty actor thing going on, and sometimes it's really refreshing to get out of your milieu and turn your winks towards someone who looks manly enough to throw you over his shoulder fireman-style and chop down a forest with the other hand, all while growing a majestic beard and distilling his own moonshine.

I've sung the praises of Seattle before, but this trip we spent some time in Portland, which apparently is known for like, wilderness and beer and a certain cultural literacy and also so many hipsters. The city was charming and the bars were stellar and there was even a Beauty Bar, which, if you are unfamiliar, is both a salon AND a bar/club. It was in this establishment that I met two unfortunate gentlemen who, sadly, were the victims of my warped sense of borderline drunk humor. (And really? I could probably write a book about all the reasons why I am single but frankly, sometimes you've got to forsake getting some sugar for the good of entertainment and I like to think of myself as a martyr for entertainment. I'm really doing this for you. You're welcome.)

EM took this picture! I didn't, because I suck at that kind of thing.

EM, her lady-friend "Rob-A-Bank" and I sat down and EM went to go order us a round of drinks at Beauty Bar, PDX (that means Portland, FYI). While she was at the bar, a drunk man swerved up to me and said that he would like to buy me a drink so that I would dance with him. Kindly refusing, I told him that I was here with my girls and wasn't interested. He persisted. EM rejoined Rob-A-Bank and I, flanked by Drunk Fool's friend, who then engaged the group of us in conversation. Not wanting to appear entirely bitch, I politely addressed Drunk Fool's friend for the express purpose of exiting conversation with Drunk Fool. Here's how it went:

Drunk Fool's Friend: Where are you ladies from? My friend and I are here visiting Portland, but we're from Seattle.

The Average Broad: Oh, we're from L.A. I love Seattle - what brings you guys here?

Drunk Fool (rudely interjecting): THIS! (shoves a chunk of weed under my nose. Let me just clarify something here: I hate the smell of weed. I'm sorry. It nauseates me. I know a lot of you all like it, enjoy it, whatever, but to me it smells like a skunk just took a shit on some plant that you're about to light up and smoke. You can call me crazy, lots of people do. Irritated, I continued:)

TAB: Wow. Thankfully, I'm off duty, otherwise I would have a lot of questions for you kids.

Drunk Fool: Ha ha... wait, what?

TAB: You guessed it, son. I'm an undercover DEA agent. I'd suggest you two mosey on along before I have to confiscate your wares there and take you in for questioning.

Drunk Fool: (confused face) You're a... cop?

TAB: That is a 10-4, good buddy.

Drunk Fool: No you're not! Where's your badge?

TAB: I told you, I'm off duty. Plus it doesn't go with this outfit, so I left it back in the hotel. You would be in such trouble, though, OMG. Stay out of my jurisdiction, because now I know your face. I know your face and I know you're dealing and I just might call up one of my PDX brothers-in-arms and have them do a full body cavity search just to make sure that's all the product you have.

Drunk Fool: Are...are you serious?

TAB: Yep. That's cop talk for when someone straps on a latex glove and checks your butt for hidden drugs, like a human pinata or something. Without lube. Not too pleasant, unless you're into that kind of thing. Are you into that kind of thing, son?

TAB: That's good for you, being able to make reservations on your own. I hope the hotel is gay-friendly, you know, for your lifestyle.

Drunk Fool's Friend: What? No, no, we're not gay.

TAB: You probably are, a little bit. Your friend over there? The drug mule? He got so nervous when I mentioned hiding drugs in your butt. I mean, I'm not gonna judge you, your preference in sexuality and drug hiding places is all up to you, you know? Just be careful, because when they cavity search you, I hear they don't use lube.

Drunk Fool's Friend: Uh... so... you're from LA? What do you do there?

TAB: I'm in the porn industry. I'm the screenwriter for several films, mainly ones that focus on what I like to call Anal Romance. Ha, but that's probably something you know a lot about! Do you have anything you want me to autograph for you? I can make it out to your boyfriend/drug mule... free of charge.

Drunk Fool's Friend: Um. I have to go over here now.

TAB: (shouting across the bar and dance floor) Ha ha, okay there friend! You crazy kids be safe, always wear condoms! And find better places to stash your drugs! No one wants to smoke butt-weed, okay?

So that's how that went. The rest of the evening I danced with a hipster guy who looked like a lumberjack and wore suspenders on too-tight jeans. When he asked what I did for a living, I told him I made a living correcting improper uses of "irony" and thought I could make a killing here in Portland. He immediately stopped talking to me and danced off.

Monday, January 10, 2011

I've decided that in this perilous age of depressingly flexible morality, dating has become one of the most dangerous sports ever. Like, worse than rugby. Worse than gladiators battling lions and Russell Crowe (I hear he throws things when he's mad!) and worse than my own version of golf, which EM and I made up when we were kids because we thought that regular golf was boring, so all of our sand traps had cobras and our water hazards had sharks, and you had to hit the golf ball at the same time as your opponent and then race to the next hole, and golf carts were actually chariots that you could use but they were super dangerous like in Ben Hur (because remember how that one guy actually *died* when they were filming?!) and the whole thing was played over an ancient Native American burial ground that was full of zombies on all prime numbered holes. Extreme Death Golf!

Anyway, dating is worse than all of those put together. At least if zombies attack me when I'm golfing, I have the luxury of decapitating them with my golf club (which would have a razor sharp edge sort of like a machete) but I am not allowed to discipline men in that way because frankly, that sort of thing would get your ass thrown in prison and I've never really done well in small, confined spaces.

I didn't want to go out. I really wasn't going to, but EM and EM's boyfriend convinced me at the last minute to properly usher in 2011, so the decision was made. EM's boyfriend's friend joined us, he brought a couple of his friends, and everyone seemed perfectly nice, so after a few Jack and Cokes I was feeling better about this whole stupid holiday. I suppose at this point we can fast forward to the bar, and later through our hours and copious amounts of alcohol at said bar, and way until the end of the evening, when it's safe to say that my sobriety was nowhere to be found and it had taken my short term memory with it.

One of these gentlemen who had accompanied us to this bar was particularly cute in my opinion and I'm assuming entertaining, because by the end of the night I hadn't lost interest. I'm aware that there was flirting, but really don't remember what we talked about, or anything that would've been remotely important at the time. I was drunk, he was cute, I love flirting, and the group of us was on our way to Taco Bell. Life was good.

Somehow, as I'm sure you may have guessed already, this fellow and I ended up making out. How? When? Why? I wish I could tell you. I wish I actually remembered that part. Whatever, life was still good. Until he started talking. Ugh.

(Let me just stop right here and say I am seriously not a fan of romantic confessions. I don't know why it always happens in the most inconvenient times possible for me, but I am sick to death of getting all flirty and kissy over some gent just to have him stop me and say something like, "I'm actually married," or "My girlfriend just moved away, but we're going to try to make it work," or even "This doesn't mean I want to date you." Yeah. All of those have *really* happened. Just save us both the trouble and don't say anything, and then I won't have to ruin the mood by envisioning your demise, okay? Haha, okay.)

"I'm a bad person," I vaguely remember him saying.

"What? No, no, you're a good kisser. All is well."

"No, I shouldn't be here," he said.

Uh oh. Here it comes...

"Crap. So... are you married?" I like to start with the worst, to lessen the blow of some not-as-bad revelation.

"No..."

"Ugh. How many girlfriends do you have?"

"Just the one," he said, still trying to be up in my grill.

"Sonofabitch. WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SOMETHING?!"

"I thought about it throughout the night, I had these opportunities... but I'm really attracted to you and you're so charming and quite a conversationalist... I was just doomed," he said, trying to convey his helplessness.

"Dude. It's not my fault I'm awesome and you have no self-control. I'm suddenly very tired and going to bed. You can pass out on the floor in the living room with the other guys. Dick."

"Don't be mad, it's not your fault," he repeated to me.

Obviously, I was mad. Infuriated. Not that I had anticipated having anything meaningful or long-lasting with this guy, but had I known that he was taken I wouldn't have talked to him, let alone flirted with him. Nothing would have happened. I'm aware of my behavior when I drink and I'm not the type to put myself within the path of temptation. Still, I hope he's honest with his girlfriend and I hope she dumps his ass. I'd like to think that there's justice somewhere in this hideous turn of events.

To prevent this sort of thing from happening in the future, I've decided to compose a quick dating questionnaire for men to fill out before I can formulate any sort of interest. The top three questions will be: 1. Are you gay? 2. Are you currently married? 3. Are you currently dating, in a relationship, or otherwise romantically spoken for? IF YOU ANSWERED 'YES' TO ANY OF THESE QUESTIONS, PLEASE TURN YOUR QUESTIONNAIRE IN AND BE ON YOUR WAY. FAILURE TO ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS TRUTHFULLY WILL RESULT IN POTENTIAL HARM TO YOU, EITHER PSYCHOLOGICALLY OR PHYSICALLY. THANKS FOR PLAYING.

Monday, January 3, 2011

So apparently I was somewhat naughty last month because I only posted twice and I see that's the lowest number of posts that I've averaged, but considering my first post ever bitched about how I have a problem with keeping up with blogs and journals and diaries, I'd say overall I did okay with posting sort of regularly in 2010.

Sweet. Turns out that when you meet low expectations, you feel just as accomplished as when you meet lofty expectations. Here's to standards and having low ones!

Everyone is busy posting "Best of 2010" garbage on their blogs. Ef that business. I've already discussed New Year's and resolutions and frankly, when it comes to bad habits, either don't have them or be really good at them.

My plan was to usher in 2011 with a day of productivity and verve, but I was hungover and stayed in bed all day trying not to vomit, so I suppose I at least succeeded at being really good at one of my bad habits and at least that's something, right?